


California King

by Heronfem



Series: Bad Company [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (sort of), Dean really doesn't care for California, M/M, OMC character death, Prostitution, Vonnegut Quotes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 04:41:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/646669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heronfem/pseuds/Heronfem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dean doesn't like California, has a seasonal lover, and gets his heart both broken and mended with Vonnegut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	California King

There was always something about California that Dean didn’t like. Sure, he’d keep his mouth shut about it if Dad gave him the look of annoyance that he was so good at, but if Dad was gone? He never, _ever_ shut up about it.

Dean _hated_ California, particularly South California, and thus every time they went there, Sam was in a wonderful mood.

Of course, he shouldn’t have been, given that his ass of a brother was bitching and moaning about how the heat was, and how the smog stung his eyes, and how friggin’ _weird_ the chicks were here (Sam wasn’t entirely sure on that point, because most of them were damn good looking in his extremely selective point of view- travelling the country gave you a _very_ good eye), and god forbid he get started on the motels.

However, there was one thing he did like, and that was the men.

Getting Dean to admit this interesting little fact was like pulling teeth, and only happened when he was exceptionally drunk and cheerful (Sam routinely thanked God and any listening angels that his brother was a happy drunk and not the nightmare of his father). But he _would_ admit it, and it made Sam stupidly amused.

Dean, it turned out, had a thing for well dressed, suited up men, and if that didn’t explain the obsession he’d had with that one drama teacher, nothing did.

/

So here’s the thing about hunting in Hollywood. First, it’s friggin awesome because people assume you’re just filming a movie. Second, there are a _lot_ of things that can get blown up and no one A) notices or B) cares.

And here’s the thing Dean really loves about Hollywood-

Cars.

Okay, to back up and explain. Hollywood blows up a lot of cars in movies. And, because some of them are nice, vintage models that they want repaired, they always need mechanics.

So the only reason Dean even likes California a little? He gets to have his hands all over these awesome old cars.

Excuse you, _classic_.

And, well, if there’s this one guy who owns this one shop that Dean _always_ gets a job at? Sam supposes it’s his business and no one else’s, but really, Dean is not at _all_ subtle with how he stares at the man and his fine, form fitting slacks, or the way the vest he wears nips in at the waist just so.

It’s actually kind of hilarious.

/

“You’re fooling exactly no one,” Sam tells him one afternoon that they’re sprawled out on the beach. He _loves_ summer, and summer in the most star-studded place in the world is just fifteen kinds of perfect. He’s pretty sure he saw Farrah Fawcett not too long ago, and the cast of Baywatch. He loves his life. California is fucking _amazing_. “C’mon, you guys have been sleeping together since you first met, I’m not blind.”

Dean honestly blushes, and throws sand at him. It’s one of the rare days that Dean’ll actually shimmy out of his fifty billion layers and lounge, which is fantastic, because Sam has every intention of encasing him in wet sand when he finally drifts off. (The _beach_ , man. Greatest place on Earth.)

“I mean,” Sam continues blithely, “Even _Dad_ knows you two have been getting it on. You came home looking like you’d won the lottery and had a check for less than what you make playing _pool_.”

Dean gives him the evil eye, but says sweetly, “Sammy, I am going to make you life a living hell when you start getting laid, should that ever actually happen.”

“Oh, I know,” Sam says cheerfully. “But how do you know I haven’t already passed that milestone?”

A fantastically good looking blonde passes, and Sam smiles cheerfully at her as Dean gapes at him.

Five minutes later he has her number, and a date for the following night.

Dean rubs sand in his hair.

/

Raul San Quentin is old money, old charm, at least 60 percent Spanish and everything that Dean wants in a seasonal lover. He doesn’t ask questions, he dresses well, he drives nice cars and his bed is massive as well as covered in sheets he can afford to replace. He also doesn’t have any diseases, and his housekeeper is a sweet lady who calls Dean ‘ _mijo_ ’ and makes him lunch. So when Dean swings through California on hunts and such, he enjoys calling on Raul.

Raul likes him even more because he can fix his cars, looks damn good in everything (up to and including a French maid uniform, they checked), also has no diseases, and is fifteen kinds of enthusiastic about sex. It’s awesome.

There’s also the fact that Raul pays Dean handsomely into a side account that will one day go to the little brother that Raul has only watched from a distance. When Sam runs (and Dean knows he will) there will be at least something waiting for him in California, even if he doesn’t yet know it.

But for now Raul indulges in the sleek expanse of muscle currently dozing on the left side of the bed without worry or care. Running a fond hand through the spiky hair, he’s entirely unsurprised when Dean wakes, smiling lazily at him like the cat that caught the canary.

“Damn,” he says in that familiar, charmingly drawled voice of his. “Just when I think California is just too much ugly for me to handle, I get to wake up to your pretty face.”

Raul snorts, batting the back of his head. “Get up and shower, you ass. You reek.”

Dean laughs easily at him, stretching lazily in bed before rolling up and sauntering casually into the steam shower like he wasn’t stark naked and covered in bite marks. One day Dean’ll stop coming around. But until then…Raul just rises, and goes to join him in the shower.

That day is not today, and he intends to enjoy the charming, too-young-for-him, laughing menace in his shower while he can.

/

Dean still hates California. But for the two months that he’s there, Raul shows him her charms.

They see ships. They go sailing for a bit. They dance at a surprisingly nice little restaurant that reminds Dean suspiciously of the Havana club from _Guys and Dolls_ (not that he’s ever seen it. Of course). Dean is fitted for a dangerously expensive suit, and dragged to the Hotel Bel Air. 

That night is one of the best of his life, because after a dinner full of good food with names he can’t pronounce, they go and sit above the city, drinking cheap wine and spinning in lazy circles that might once have been an attempt at a waltz. It’s a lazy night full of warmth and no expectations on his part, and Dean clings to that memory like it’s a precious thing.

They do other things- California things, like beaches and boardwalks and touristy things, but Dean still works at the shop and the day comes when they go away. 

Dean watches California vanish behind them, and for the first time, knows he’ll miss it.

/

It’s night time, the sky mostly dark up in the hills where the house is settled. It’s farther up against the mountains, away from the bustle of the city, and you can see a few stars if you look close enough. The swimming pool at the back of Raul San Quentin’s house is the exact right temperature and perfectly clear. Four weeks before Sam’s life at Stanford will be interrupted, Dean tugs the only john he ever really cared about into the perfect clearness, reciting Vonnegut.

“Here we are,” he says softly, letting water rush over the tired limbs of a man battling cancer. “Trapped in the amber of the moment.”

Raul leans tiredly against him, smiling softly as Dean whirls them in a lazy, almost ballroom styled dance through the water. He’s dying and knows it, and Dean does too. They’re quiet, peaceful, and he feels content like he hasn’t in months. 

He’s been waiting, he supposes.

“Why?” he asks finally when Dean has easily carried him out of the water, and they lay quietly in bed, one massive hand resting on his cheek.

“There is no why,” Dean says simply.

“There’s always a why, Dean,” Raul chides, smiling tiredly, though he feels better than he has in months. “You spent hours in my library. Tell me, why.”

Dean smiles tiredly, kissing his forehead before saying softly, “I feel and think much as you do, care about many of the things you care about, although most people do not care about them. You are not alone.”

/

Years later, there will be an angel resting beside him in Purgatory, and Dean will be asked, by a gravelly voice filled with exhaustion, “Why?”

“There is no why,” he’ll say, and it won’t be simple. It’ll be filled with complexities.

“There’s always a why, Dean,” Castiel will chide in exhaustion. “Tell me, why?”

And Dean will smile tiredly, and even get a bit choked up as he says into the darkness, “I feel and think much as you do, care about many of the things you care about, although most people do not care about them. You are not alone.”

And somewhere, a tiny, broken bit of his heart heals.


End file.
